SIGNS OF PROGRESS
Man awarded for overcoming his challenges
By Jeffrey Westhoff 

Ronald Eshoo does not curse the darkness, or the silence. 
Eshoo, of Lake in the Hills, is blind and deaf. But every day he takes a Metra 
train into Chicago for training at the Illinois Center for Rehabilitative 
Education, a division of the Department of Human Services. 

Eshoo greets visitors at his door with a smile, an outstretched hand and a 
sparkle in his eye that belies his blindness. He gestures toward a table near 
the door as a place to chat. His sons, Ron and Nick, watch "The Powerpuff Girls" 
in the next room. His wife, Lori, looks after the boys and works in the kitchen. 

Eshoo is learning to become a vending machine replacement manager, which means 
he would refill and clean the machines, count the money inside them and order 
more food. "I passed the final exam," Eshoo says through an interpreter, Karen 
Hale, "and now I am waiting for on-the-job training at different buildings." 
When Eshoo does get an assignment, he will work with a partner. "I will have 
someone with me to read the different products," he says, "and the person will 
have to write down the inventory."

Eshoo, 49, has been deaf since birth. When he was 21, he learned he had 
retinitis pigmentosa, a degenerative eye disease that slowly erodes vision. At 
31, he could no longer drive. At 33, he had to give up his job as a draftsman. 
Later, he had to end his daily walks around his old Chicago neighborhood near 
Addison and Harlem.

The Eshoos moved to Lake in the Hills eight years ago. "It was a good place for 
the boys to go to school," Eshoo said. He met his wife, who works at Harper 
College in Palatine, at a bowling outing for a retinitis pigmentosa group - 
bowling remains one of Eshoo's favorite hobbies. "I do enjoy bowling," he says. 
"And I am looking for a bowling league for the blind."

During the discussion Eshoo sits facing Hale, who forms words in sign language 
into his hands much like Annie Sullivan with Helen Keller. Eshoo signs back and 
Hale relays his answer. Hale signs rapidly, allowing barely a lull in the 
conversation. 

Last October The Hadley School for the Blind, which is based in Winnetka, gave 
Eshoo its annual Richard Kinney Challenge of Living Award. "I was very 
surprised and shocked that they gave it to me," Eshoo said. He wasn't even sure 
who nominated him. 

Holly Goldin, the school's associate director of communication, had the answer: 
He was nominated by Jerrie Lawhorn, an instructor at the school who, like Eshoo, 
is deaf and blind. "Ron received the award mostly to recognize his 
accomplishments as a student in spite of the fact that he can neither see nor 
hear," Goldin said. "He got into what he wanted to learn and did a really good 
job of staying on track."

The award is named for Richard Kinney, a past president of the school who also 
was blind and deaf. "I found Richard's statue at the Hadley School," Eshoo said, 
"I touched it to see what he looked like." 

Eshoo began taking courses from Hadley in 1993. "Basically, Hadley helped me 
improve my English skills," he said. From childhood Eshoo's primary language was 
sign language. When he started to lose his sight, he needed to brush up on his 
English abilities to learn braille. Eshoo also took English as a second language 
course from Harper College. A worker from the Department of Human Resources 
taught him to read braille in 1989.

Also from Hadley Eshoo took a course in Nemeth, a type of braille for math and 
computer science, which he found difficult to learn. More enjoyable was a course 
in chess, which has become another of his hobbies. Eshoo's other hobbies include 
gardening and building doll houses. On Sundays the family attends Bethel Baptist 
Church in Schaumburg. During summer they vacation in Wisconsin. 
Eshoo talks to his sons mostly through his wife, who knows sign language. She is 
teaching nine-year-old Ron to sign, and five-year-old Nick is starting to pick 
it up, 
too.

As Eshoo began to lose his sight, a deaf friend suggested he go to The Chicago 
Lighthouse, a private not-for-profit agency that serves the visually impaired. 
There he discovered much support for people who are deaf and blind, including 
field trips and parties. "I was surprised at all the deafblind persons who 
participated," he said, "and there were interpreters."

Interpreters such as Hale can open Eshoo's world. "They can broaden my 
communication," he says. "They explain more what is going on when we go to 
different places." He misses having an interpreter during his daily commute. 
"When I take Metra there is no interpreter on the train," he says, "and I feel 
very lonely. That's why I prefer to have an interpreter to broaden my horizons."

Eshoo usually studies or reads on the train. Sometimes he takes a nap. He trusts 
the conductor to make sure he gets off at his stop. "The ticket man knows me," 
Eshoo said. "He'll tap me on the shoulder and let me know when it's time to 
punch my ticket. Sometimes he doesn't tap me, and I get a free ride. I think 
that's funny." 

The first time Eshoo took the train downtown, a mobility specialist met him at 
the Ogilvie Transportation Center and taught him how to get off the train and 
find his way around the station. 

Eshoo also learned how to handle his paper money to distinguish among the 
denominations. He keeps his $1 bills flat; he folds $5 in half; he folds $10 
lengthwise; and he keeps $20 bills separate. Eshoo plans his purchases so he 
receives less than a dollar in change. "For example," he said, "when I go to 
McDonald's and place an order for a Big Mac, large fries and a large drink, I 
know it's about $4. They write on my hand the amount." Eshoo then knows to hand 
the cashier $5. "I don't give them a $10 bill," he said, "because I can't 
guarantee what change I'll get back."

His forays into the train station largely consist of one-sided conversations. "I 
can answer people," he said. "I can write and show what I need. I can 
communicate with people, but they don't really know how to communicate with me 
because they don't know how to sign." This frustrates him. "I suffer through it. 
I accept it," he said. "But I wish we could communicate. It's more fun." 

When he's at home, Eshoo can communicate by phone through a TTY machine with a 
braille attachment. "I have a vibrator on my belt that lets me know when the 
phone is ringing," he said. Eshoo's day begins at 5 a.m. when his bed vibrates 
to wake him up. He helps his sons get ready for school, then his wife drives him 
to the train depot and puts him on the train. At the Chicago train station a 
special services worker meets him and takes him to the Illinois Center for 
Rehabilitative Education. "Then I have training all day," he says.

In the afternoon he takes the train back to McHenry County, where his wife picks 
him up and brings him home for family dinner and games with his sons. While he 
can't play Nintendo with them, he can challenge them at chess. Who usually wins? 
Eshoo points to his chest. "But I'm teaching them," he says, "and they're 
improving."